


Come on Over

by CB (maidamedia)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-19 15:09:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22512868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maidamedia/pseuds/CB
Summary: A first time story.  Aziraphale fears why Crowley wants holy water, and is determined to show him that life can be worth living.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	Come on Over

**Author's Note:**

> Authors: MSL and CB. If I could get it through the form, I would.

"Sauntered vaguely downward!" Dust flew in the air with every step Aziraphale took but, miraculously, never settled back on his still shining shoes. "Fraternizing?" He restrained himself from stomping his anger out. Then he considered that there really wasn't anything wrong with the occasional stomp. One could think of it as a way to work out negative emotions. Stomp psychology. Surely more discreet than scream psychology. And it did often change the dynamics.

Perhaps just the smallest stomp. He could imagine it as a way to practice for his next dance class. _Greve droit croisee_. _Petit Saut_. _Pieds joints_. _Capriole_! And if a dance kick didn't let the emotions out, then maybe kicking a ball that someone had left in the middle of the path might also help. The ball soared into the nearby pond. And it did really help. Aziraphale never noticed the stares and smiles of the people walking by and turning back to watch what he was going to do next.

There was absolutely no reason that that fool - that idiot - needed holy water. Insurance? What was Crowley going to do, collect enough to splash every demon that hell sent after him? Assuming they ever would and that Crowley's worries weren't just paranoia. Psychology was a never ending fascination for the angel. Whenever he visited Munich, he never failed to drop in on Father Franz Brentano, to argue about angels and pins and all sorts of fascinating things. Brentano's book on Aristotle had just arrived and he'd meant to spend this afternoon going through it carefully in preparation for an argument he was looking forward to having with the man. Instead, he found himself arguing with Crowley.

Holy water! How dare he ask for help with the destruction of a soul that Aziraphale WAS forced to admit was already somewhat blackened, if not a complete black hole? Well, destruction of his existence then. The angel put a mental bookmark away to remember to discuss the difference with Brentano. Because there was only one thing that Crowley meant by his requested "favor." He meant to take the easy way out before his so-called friends tortured him for the rest of eternity. That was just the sort of thing that that spawn of Satan would do - give up when he should be fighting.

And why was Crowley so sure that retribution was close on his tail? Tails were fascinating things. Had Crowley ever had a tail? Ducks have ears, indeed! There was a moment's interruption in Aziraphale's mental rantings while he tried to imagine what kind of tail Crowley might actually have that could be hidden by trousers Aziraphale suspected to have been the product of Savile Row's Henry Poole and Co., tailors to his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales - a lovely fellow, the late Prince Albert. Right with the good causes - education, anti-slavery. So young. No question where he was right now, Aziraphale thought, glancing up.

With an effort, Aziraphale pulled his mind back to the immediate problem. It wasn't just that suicide was a sin - which it was - it was the total devastation that it caused for those left behind. Aziraphale wondered who would mourn for Crowley. It didn't take much effort to realize there was likely only one. Himself. That brought Aziraphale to an abrupt stop.

How could that be? Slowly he started walking again, trying to think who he knew who also knew Crowley and who might lament the demon's loss. There was Aziraphale's side, of course. But they'd be in alt if Crowley took his life. After all, Crowley was exceptionally good at his work.

Well, what about Crowley's side? Surely there were some who would miss him. Of course, if there were, Crowley would probably not be in so much trouble with them that suicide would be even a possible option. What a terrible way that was to go - holy water. Or so Aziraphale had heard. Come to think of it, Aziraphale didn't know if he'd ever heard of any demon actually destroying himself. But trust Crowley to walk his own unique path right to its end. Its dead end.

Aziraphale shook his head to return to his original rumination. How dare Crowley try to involve his friend in his destruction?

But what if Crowley hadn't really wanted to destroy himself? What if Crowley had actually been desperately reaching out for help. To his best friend. And if Crowley had really gotten that depressed, how had Aziraphale so completely missed the signs? By being so busy with his books and with his own good deeds that he couldn't look up long enough to see that Crowley was suffering.

Why just yesterday Aziraphale had spent hours with a widow whose son had just died, though Aziraphale had been very careful not to let her know that her son's next stage of existence had required a slide rather than a ladder. That young man was definitely not about to become mates up there with Prince Albert. He hadn't thought of Crowley all day.

In fact, Crowley hadn't even been on Aziraphale's mind for the last few weeks. There had been that bibliophile meeting for which he'd been preparing. And truth be told, his report on 12th century illuminated manuscripts had been exceptionally well received.

But Crowley. Why had he not even called on his friend to see how he was doing? He did have the cane that Gabriel had given him when "up there" wanted to reach him "down here." Perhaps it would have worked to reach Crowley, too. That is, if Crowley's cane was another one like Aziraphale's. But say it wasn't - or assume that you wouldn't want to use what might well be a party line with someone when you wouldn't want anyone else to be listening in, actually hearing your conversations. Then surely Aziraphale could have made some sort of a private network that would have worked just between the two of them.

Well, maybe he couldn't have, but Crowley was very mechanical, and electrical, and all of those scientific things that bored Aziraphale to tears. Crowley could have done it.

And maybe, too, he could have modified one of Gabriel's earlier attempts. The first try had been a dreadful necktie that Gabriel had proudly handed him. Not that Gabriel's taste in ties was poor; it just didn't fit with Aziraphale's. And what did you do when you needed full dress kit for the opera? When a cravat was _de rigueur_? Aziraphale was rather proud of the way he was able to tie one. He'd even invented his own special fold, which he'd named The Heavenly. And little had Gabriel cared how annoyed people got when your cravat demanded your attention in the middle of a particularly touching musical passage.

No, that wouldn't have worked for communicating with Crowley.

And Gabriel's original idea was worst of all. Shoe communicators! White shoe communicators! In winter!

And even in summer, you just didn't wear white shoes with a cream and brown suit. Gabriel should have known that. And then he had to listen to Gabriel whinging about how long it took Aziraphale to answer his shoe. Did Gabriel have any idea how long it took to untie the silk laces Gabriel had put on those damned shoes? They kept slipping free unless you triple tied them! Just let's see Gabriel get his off in a hurry!

So they'd settled on the cane. Which kept reminding Aziraphale of his missing flaming sword. He sighed. It was so hard to remember to always carry a cane. And where did you put it when your hands were filled with books? Nowhere. So he certainly couldn't be put to fault when he did forget to always have it with him. Or, as now, when discretion had been better served to conveniently forget it for his meeting with Crowley.

The real problem with the cane was that it was a trifle obvious. After Aziraphale had not noticed a few of Gabriel's attempts to reach him, the Archangel had modified the device so that it first attracted Aziraphale's attention and then spoke to him. Unfortunately, while the sound of a steam engine - with accompanying steam - might work while strolling along the Thames - twirling said cane and attempting to ignore it emitting large burps of cloud-like material - it was more difficult to ignore when leaning against one's chair in the London library.

A blanket was not the right solution he'd discovered. No place to carry the pesky thing. So Gabriel had grudgingly modified the announcement part, as Aziraphale learned the first time the cane barked at him. Half his customers dropped to hands and knees to find the trapped canine, while one older gentleman, terrified of dogs, climbed onto the table and screamed louder than the previous cane's steam funnel had shrieked.

It had been months before their current solution had been reached as the result of a prolonged negotiation. Aziraphale still remembered the first time Crowley had been around when his cane began singing one of the bawdier songs from _La Cecchina_ , a piece based on a text called _Virtue Rewarded_.

Ah, Crowley. Aziraphale reminded himself that he really needed to stop going into these mental mazes. He'd always had trouble finding his way out of the real ones when they'd been popular landscaping features. Again, Aziraphale's steps slowed.

What if Crowley had been reaching out? What if Crowley now felt that he'd been deserted by his last friend? By his only friend? What might he be doing at this very minute? Aziraphale stopped walking and stood in the middle of the path, to the consternation of the people behind him, who now had to go around. They weren't even noticed.

Wasn't that just like Crowley? Thoughtless to the end. Expecting Aziraphale to help him and not being clear about it. Help him? He was more likely to kill that demon himself. Heart beating faster, it was just dawning on Aziraphale what Crowley might be doing right now. He could be walking into a church this very minute to off himself and Aziraphale would only know when their paths never crossed again. In that case, how long would be appropriate to wait for word from his friend before full panic was allowable?

And that led to the inevitable question, what if Crowley should actually disappear from Aziraphale's life? What if he never saw Crowley again? Without really consciously deciding to, Aziraphale turned around and headed back to where he'd left Crowley, somehow imagining his friend - damn the demon all over again - looking at the water and planning how to end it all. No longer strolling with his usual dignity, Aziraphale found himself running back to where he'd left his friend.

But when he got back to the water's edge, there was no Crowley. Though it was irrational, Aziraphale looked down into the water, but no face stared back at him, unless you counted the ducks that converged in hopeful flocks. Aziraphale didn't.

Of course, Crowley could have just gone home. Or he could have stopped in at a favorite pub. Or he could be right now looking at the holy water in a church because Aziraphale had failed him. Frantically Aziraphale looked around. Churches. Where would Crowley go? Somewhere close. St James Chapel. Ignoring the curiosity of the mall strollers, Aziraphale took off at a run. The Queen's Chapel was closed just now but the guards opened the door for the angel without even thinking about it. There were times when it was very useful to be an angel.

The place was small, with seating on either side of the main aisle and a far stained glass window that deserved more than the quick glance that Aziraphale could give it. If Crowley had been there, he would have been impossible to miss. Unless, of course, he'd already topped himself in the silver Lily Font. But no. There would have been some sign left behind. Turning around, Aziraphale raced out with only an abbreviated bow toward the front altar.

In the middle of the street, Aziraphale tried to remember what other churches were between here and Crowley's place in Berkeley Square. Grosvenor Chapel! That was only a mile away. By the time he reached the church, he was flushed and panting.

It was larger than St James, so Aziraphale made a quick dash around to be sure that Crowley wasn't there. He wasn't. Hurrying out, Aziraphale considered going on to St George's, but that was the other side of Berkeley Square. He'd stop first at Crowley's and, if Crowley wasn't home, then he'd try St George's.

But there was no need to continue on. When Aziraphale reached Crowley's house on the Square, he could clearly see Crowley walking back and forth past an upper window. If there were a bench, he would have sat down in relief. Or hammered on the door and killed Crowley then and there. As it was, he leaned on the small railing that edged the walk and caught his breath.

What to do? He couldn't see himself just going in to tell Crowley he was worried about him. Besides, Crowley wouldn't admit that he was thinking about suicide any more now than he had admitted it before when they'd been together in the park.

This then was it. The ultimate good deed it was Aziraphale's duty to perform. Saving Crowley from himself. An idea came slowly to Aziraphale's mind and he clenched his hands around the metal of the fence. If he stayed close to Crowley, then Crowley might be enticed into confiding in his friend. Talking out a problem that together they might solve. What Crowley needed right now was a friend always at hand to listen to him and, maybe, just to be there for him. Fine. Aziraphale had his answer.

Recognizing a moment when the people in the park were looking every way but at him, Aziraphale miracled himself back to his shop.

**********************************

There weren't many things that he really needed to take. There were the books - the hard part being choosing which few to bring now and which might be brought along later. It all depended on how long this mission would take. There were the soft, cotton gloves for the rare first edition of Michelangelo's _Sonnets_ , 1683. That just wasn't safe to leave in the shop. Then there was the newer volume, which he just liked having around, of Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_ , 1855. Brentano's book, of course. And perhaps a novel. That took a while to choose.

A nightshirt, slippers, a warm dressing gown. Glancing around while scooping up the last of his toiletries and putting them into a corner of the leather valise, Aziraphale sighed. He did enjoy the comfort of a familiar place. This was rather like traveling, something which he'd done too much of in his long career. But it was necessary, he reminded himself, and set about thinking how he was going to convince his friend to let him temporarily move in.

He had just locked the door and turned around when he saw Gabriel coming out of the crowd. Too late to go back inside. If he'd only taken both of those two novels, instead of diddling around deciding between them.

"Gabriel. Back so soon. Weren't you here just the other day?"

"Meeting. Seems to be a problem with Scotland again. Michael is scattering the attendees around the city, and I thought I'd stay here." He stared fixedly at the closed door until Aziraphale came to himself.

"Oh. Certainly. Always welcome." The now unlocked door opened and Aziraphale waved the Archangel through, reluctantly following and looking for a place to inconspicuously leave his bag.

"Going somewhere?"

Sighing, Aziraphale laid it on a table and took off his hat and gloves, and placed his cane atop the set. "I'll make tea. Would you like some?" At Gabriel's look of disdain, Aziraphale hurriedly added, "Sorry. Forgot. Temple?" Gabriel nodded and glanced around before settling down on a chair.

When Aziraphale was longer with the tea than he expected, Gabriel got up and wandered aimlessly around examining books with little interest. Curious, he stared at the bag and then miracled it open. He was just examining Aziraphale's nightshirt when the angel returned with his tea. The cup rattled in the saucer and a bit of tea sloshed out as Aziraphale came to a sudden halt.

"I don't remember you having any out-of-town assignments," Gabriel said, suspiciously, as he pushed the clothes back in and closed the bag. Turning, he looked straight at Aziraphale. "You're acting nervous. Something to confess?"

Setting the cup down and miracling a napkin to wipe up, Aziraphale ran through a range of possible excuses. The only thought that kept repeating in his mind was the advice he'd often heard from a friend with whom he fraternized that lying was most effective when mixed generously with the truth. A deep breath, and he turned with a smile to his boss. "Actually, yes. I probably should have passed the idea by you first, but I thought that there was so much possibility in it that I was rather hoping to surprise you."

"I hate surprises."

"Yes, of course. Let me explain."

Leaving the tea behind for fear it might give away the fact that his hands weren't completely steady, Aziraphale took the less comfortable seat and waited for Gabriel to settle down, expression still saying that Aziraphale had best be extremely convincing.

"I went into the park earlier to feed the ducks and I was shocked to run into the demon Crowley there. We don't usually bump into one another but it turned out that he knew I liked to go there and had been waiting for me. I know I should have turned around right then, but he looked miserable.

"Turns out he's been so upset with the jobs he's been doing for..." Aziraphale pointed in the appropriate direction, "that he's been trying to balance them out with the odd good deed." Leaning forward, he confided, "He's especially fond of cart horses and has set up a farm outside of London where he's been sending the most ill-treated ones to recover and live out their lives."

Realizing that Gabriel wasn't impressed with this recitation and was, in fact, getting impatient, Aziraphale hurried to the central point he'd been meandering around. "His next assignment is to encourage the very cruelty he's been trying to mitigate - a stableman in the Royal Stables - and he's afraid that he won't be able to bring himself to do it. He knows that will get him into trouble. What he wanted to ask me was whether there are any paths back from hell for repentant fallen angels."

At Gabriel's look of true horror, Aziraphale hurried on. "Of course, I told him no. A most definite no. But when he pushed to find out how I knew that, I realized that I just...knew it."

Gabriel nodded. "Absolutely right. Eternity means what it says. They defied heaven and the punishment is forever."

"Just what I told him," agreed Aziraphale righteously. Then he looked down at his hands and said, "But it occurred to me that it might be rather good publicity for OUR side if a fallen angel WANTED to reform." A quick glance at Gabriel showed that the comment had made an impact. With an effort, Aziraphale kept silent and waited for Gabriel to think the issue through.

It took almost five minutes before the Archangel looked up again, a wide smile now transforming his face. "Not just that, but it's almost certain that Hastur is going to turn him into demon dust. I don't mind telling you that there have been times he's been better at his job than you've been." At Aziraphale's embarrassed grimace, Gabriel waved a hand magnanimously. "But this more than makes up for those times. And a new opponent might make you up your game. Now explain where you were going."

Panic just barely kept at bay, Aziraphale explained, improvising as he went. "I promised I would spend some time with him. We're going to try to work out what he wants and how he might go about applying to heaven for forgiveness. He knows the chance is slight, but to save the carriage horses he thinks it's worth trying. I think he wants me to help him make up his mind whether he should do anything at all."

Getting up from the chair, Gabriel wandered the room looking at, but not really seeing, the objects scattered about on shelves and tables. It was another while before he returned to stand before Aziraphale. His face stern, he announced. "Do it. I never realized that you had such a reputation from our competition that they would look to you for advice. I may have misjudged you, Aziraphale."

Circling the room once more, he glanced down at the bag and back to the anxious angel. "I'll expect frequent reports. Get him to ask for forgiveness. Leave it to me to decide how to make best use of that. Now, where am I staying?"

It took a good ten minutes to settle Gabriel in Aziraphale's own bedroom, since Aziraphale wouldn't be using it. With a reminder to lock the bookshop door when Gabriel left for his meetings, Aziraphale grabbed everything, and, for the first time, found himself grateful to be escaping the shop.

As he walked from SoHo to Crowley's home in Mayfair, he went over in his mind the story he had concocted for Gabriel, to see how to fit it into the story he'd have to tell Crowley. It was starting to get confusing. There was the actual reason he was going to stay with Crowley - the need to give him a reason to keep living. And then there was the story he'd told Gabriel - that he might be able to get Crowley to want to come over to their side. But neither of those reasons were going to work with Crowley. He was going to have to be a bit more creative. Well, winging it always seemed to work for Crowley. He could be just as creative, when pushed.

The Berkeley Square neighborhood was one he well knew. Even though he rarely visited Crowley's home, the two were often at the local Gunther's down the block - Aziraphale for the ices and pastries, Crowley for the brandy that seemed to always appear in his coffee cup. Maybe if he could get Crowley to go over there, he'd have more time to come up with a convincing story. Like locusts in the bookshop driving him out until they could be eliminated.

On arriving at Crowley's door, he stared at the serpent knocker, which hissed on recognizing him. But before it could slap itself down on the clapper, Aziraphale decided on a more direct approach. It would be too easy for Crowley to keep him out if he were on the doorstep ready for a visit so, with a wave of the wrist that equaled Crowley's for flair, Aziraphale opened the door and walked into the large entry area. Closing the door quietly behind himself, he walked to the bottom of the central staircase and called up. "Crowley, come down. We need to talk."

The indistinct sounds that had been coming from the upper floor suddenly stopped, and a minute later Crowley appeared from some room on the first floor. Behind him came Hastur.

"Not a good time, Aziraphale."

"Oh, no, Crowley. I'm sure this is a fine time," Hastur assured them both as he bumped Crowley aside and led the way down the stairs, Crowley on his heels.

"I didn't know you were mates. Silly me, not knowing that. And what do we have here?" Before Aziraphale realized what Hastur was doing, he'd grabbed the bag from the angel and opened it. The first thing he pulled out was the nightshirt. Setting down the valise, he shook out the white embroidered silk. Looking from one to the other, he asked, the sarcasm thick, "Am I interrupting a slumber party, by any chance?"

At an imploring glance from Aziraphale, Crowley grabbed the bag out of Hastur's hands and pushed it back into Angel's, stuffing the shirt in and snapping the bag shut. "Yes, in fact, you are," Crowley said, and saw by the relief in Aziraphale's face that he'd guessed correctly. "Take the empty front bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs. And don't rush. Get settled, then join us for some wine." With encouraging shoves, Crowley headed Angel to the stairs and Hastur to the ground floor drawing room.

"I'm sure you have a perfectly good explanation for this," Hastur spit out, once the need for social politeness was gone.

"Of course," Crowley assured him, thinking furiously. "Sit and let me get you some wine. I just picked up a new vintage I'm looking forward to trying. Curious what you'll think of it."

Turning his back so that he wasn't distracted by Hastur, Crowley had worked his way through at least four scenarios by the time he'd poured the wine into three glasses and brought them back to the table by the fire. A fire at this time of year was unnecessary, but Hastur had set one to burning in the empty hearth, the odor of its hellish source too familiar. Knowing wrinkling his nose would have been impolite, Crowley forced himself to inhale deeply and smile with feigned pleasure as he indicated Hastur try the wine.

"My explanation. Yes," Crowley said, settling into the other chair and snapping his fingers to produce a third. "You might have noticed that my reports haven't met with much approval of late. In fact, if I remember correctly, I received a rather stern note on my last one."

"Oh, I remember. Never doubt that, Crowley." He sipped the wine, and paused, seemingly surprised at the taste. "This is very good."

"It is, isn't it?" Crowley's appreciation of wine had increased over the centuries and this was one he'd been looking forward to sharing with someone other than his demonic boss. But needs must, when they will. "So, about my reviews. I decided that I needed to do something absolutely spectacular to win your approval and I decided that the person that I needed to tempt into hell was..." He left the name unsaid.

Slowly Hastur's eyes opened wide. "Not Aziraphale?"

"Aziraphale. Can you imagine the reaction in hell to bringing down The Eastern Gate Angel?" Crowley sipped again, glancing sideways to see how this idea was going over.

A slow smile spread against Hastur's lips, combining what was unquestionably greed with just a trace of sadism. The smile froze as he shook his head. "You'll never do it. There's never been an angel that fell after that first Great Battle."

"He's here, isn't he?" Crowley's tone conveyed absolute smugness.

Sitting suddenly forward in his chair, Hastur asked with intentness, "What's he here for?"

"He's hiding out from his own people." Slouching down into his own chair, Crowley buried his nose in his glass. "Seems that I've been encouraging some actions on his part that have been annoying his bosses and he's in some trouble. So I offered to put him up where they wouldn't find him and give him a chance to think how to make amends and get back into their good graces."

A snort almost made Hastur spill his wine. "Just getting him here - he's already lost."

Crowley shook his head. "Always find a way to explain it. Devious. I should know. I've been battling him for millennia. What I need to do is corrupt him, and for that, I need to have him close. So while he's working through his problems, I'll be discovering his weaknesses and making sure to tempt him into a warmer climate than London."

At the sound of footsteps, both demons shut their mouths and sat up a bit straighter.

"All settled in. Thanks, Crowley. One of those for me?"

As Crowley leaned over to get the third wine glass, he attempted the trick of spilling some on Hastur to get him out of the room for awhile so he could update Angel on the current story, but he'd forgotten about not teaching granny something about eggs. The wine disappeared midair and Crowley recovered the glass, with a smile of thanks to Hastur and tried to think of some other way to get rid of him.

But the effort turned out to be wasted. Standing up and stretching, Hastur put his empty glass back on the table and turned to Crowley, "I have to be up early for the Dark Council tomorrow." He glanced at Aziraphale. "Your friends are meeting here, too, did you know?"

"Why, no. I've been moving around quite a bit lately and haven't seen anyone."

With a thin smile, Hastur asked Crowley, "Where shall I put up? I think I won't bother finding a place tonight. This should do me well enough." He glanced over at Aziraphale who was trying to smell his wine while trying not to smell the fire. "Should be quite amusing."

Attempting a casual wave toward the stairway, Crowley told him, "First floor. End of the hall. Large suite. Great view of the gardens. Marvelous sunsets. Remind you of home." The nostalgia didn't really work but, since Hastur was ignoring him and following directions, it didn't matter.

Aziraphale started to say something but Crowley waved him quiet. "Nice trick I learned from a friend, how to make a place bigger on the inside than it is on the outside." He waited until he heard a distant door opening with a loud creak. "It's the small touches that really make life worthwhile." Turning to Angel, he asked in a low, hard voice, "What are you doing here and why the bag?"

A flick of Angel's wrist and the hell fire was replaced by a small set of burning logs floating a good six inches off the hearth. The smell in the room changed from sulfur to aromatic pear. Both angel and demon took long, deep breaths before Crowley repeated his question.

"We never spend time together," Aziraphale informed him. "I thought that I'd close down the shop for a week and we could - I don't know - just do something."

"Do something," Crowley repeated. Shaking his head, he started to laugh. "Well, I guess we don't have a choice now. I needed a story, so I told Hastur that I was going to tempt you into falling."

"What an amazing coincidence." Angel's face lit up. "That's almost the same story I used on Gabriel to get the week off. Well, the opposite, of course. That I was going to try to get you to ask not to be fallen."

"And why ever would I want to do that?"

"To save the horses." With a glance toward the door, Angel moved to the chair closer to Crowley and lowered his voice till it just barely reached the demon. "I needed to explain why you might not want to be a demon anymore, so I told him you had a rehabilitation farm outside of London for mistreated carriage horses."

While Crowley choked on his last sip of wine, Angel was out of his chair and whacking him enthusiastically on the back. Crowley waved him off and took a few tentative breaths, then another large gulp of a very fine, old burgundy.

"Okay. I save horses. Shouldn't be too hard. They do have it pretty rough, what with pulling around all those wagons filled with produce, and furniture, and the buses! Have you seen how many people they stuff onto the buses? Fifty minimum. And the stress! Did you know carriage horses live an average of three years, when a horse's lifetime should be closer to twenty."

Angel settled back down in his chair. "It's just a story, Crowley."

"Right." Getting up to refill his glass, Crowley brought the decanter over and topped off Angel's, then put the bottle on the table between them. "A vacation," he said, thinking about it.

"For an entire week," Angel reminded him, a glow in his face saying that his real reason was momentarily forgotten in the pleasure of this wonderful cover story.

"I could use a vacation." The idea became more and more attractive as Crowley thought about it. Tilting his glass to Angel's, he lightly clinked them. "I deserve a vacation."

"Hear, hear." Both glasses were emptied and, without a word to coordinate, both smashed into the flames.

**********************************

It seemed that Angel and Crowley had had the same idea, and they snuck out of their facing bedrooms immediately after hearing the front door closing behind Hastur. Embarrassed grins accompanied recognition of their joint delayed exits.

"So, vacation. What did you have in mind?" Crowley waved Aziraphale ahead of him down the stairs.

"Since I'm the one imposing on you, what say you choose our first bit of fun?"

Stopping mid-stair, Crowley looked down at the eager face below him, shining with pleasure and a goodness that had only a small part of its origination in the general goodness of angels. What had he ever done to deserve a friend like Angel? Nothing good, that's for sure. He continued down.

"What would you think of getting out of town?" Crowley asked. "A trip to the seashore - maybe Brighton? Or what about Newmarket? There's still a few days of second Spring meeting. I could get in a couple of temptations and you could try to save the temptees."

"Vacation, Crowley!" Angel handed Crowley his hat, gloves and cane and picked up his own. "Newmarket's fine if you just want to put down a flutter, but no work for either of us. Do you have a coaching schedule?"

"Forget that! We're traveling in style. What do you know about phaetons? I've had my eye on one for a while, but never really found a reason to spring for one. This is a heaven-sent opportunity."

"Long Acre, if I'm not mistaken. I read an ad for a nice little barouche just the other day. Noticed it because the carriage body was such a nice cream color. Don't usually see that. Imagine it in the park with a matched pair of white mares! Of course, it does need a driver, so it's really not very practical."

"I actually had something else in mind," Crowley admitted as he waved the door shut behind them.

**********************************

"If you're expecting me to ride in that chariot from hell, you have quite another think coming," Angel whispered as they walked around a very expensive high-perch phaeton at the edge of the carriage lot. "It's so high off the ground it would be more like flying than driving, and there's no weight to it. Think about its stability!"

"Think about the speed you could get out of it. Nothing wrong with flying. Don't get a chance to do much of it anymore." The light of fanaticism was in Crowley's eyes, as he stroked the carriage body.

"And the color of the upholstery is all wrong for you." Aziraphale paused, then stood back to look at the combination. Tempted, he reached out to stroke the seat. "The blue velvet is actually very nice."

Instantly the blue turned into a rich grey beneath his fingers. "Better," said Crowley, decisively.

"Did you find it?" A salesman showed up, nose deep in a clutch of papers. He glanced up at the phaeton, then down at his papers, then back at the rig. "Mistake here. Well, never mind. So, didn't I tell you? Finest carriage on the lot. If you've got one to trade in, I'm sure we can give you the best deal in all of Long Acre. But you should snap this up while it's still here. There's a lot of interest in it and it won't last long."

"You wouldn't happen to have something lower? Perhaps a spider phaeton? A pony phaeton?" Aziraphale called desperately as Crowley took the salesman's arm and turned him away to walk among the varied vehicles, leaning in for what Aziraphale had no doubt was some spirited demonic bargaining. He turned back to stare up at the high seat and sighed. At least there was some comfort in knowing that he wouldn't have to drive back to London in the thing.

**********************************

"Give me another pair and these would be 16 mile an hour tits!" The shout was barely heard over the wind whipping the words out of Crowley's mouth. Aziraphale just hung onto the seat and prayed that he wasn't about to be tossed into a ditch, leaving him to explain how he'd been discorporated while on an excursion with his sworn enemy. The paperwork would be absolutely hellish!

"This was the greatest idea you've had in centuries!"

A slight jog in the road threw the angel against Crowley and he switched his hold to the demon's waist, holding on with both hands as if for dear life, which he strongly suspected it was. That just made Crowley laugh wildly and encourage the horses on until they were actually flying, hoofs never touching ground and the other carriages disappearing behind them as they wove in and out of the increasing traffic as the spires of London grew taller in the distance.

Tempted to close his eyes, but thinking that might make a collision more likely, Aziraphale just gripped his friend in terror and tried to calculate how much longer it would take before they reached the end of the trip. Too long was the obvious answer.

Slipping the reins into his left hand, Crowley threw an arm around Angel and pulled him in even tighter. As a straightaway opened up in front of them, he leaned over and kissed Angel full on the mouth, laughing with absolute joy before removing the arm and returning his attention to the road.

There were a few seconds of shock that went through Angel, before he realized what had just happened and then, as if joy was contagious, he gripped Crowley with all his strength and began to laugh, too.

**********************************

"There's stables out back in the mews. Must be. Always is. Find out what you need for these two beauties and let me know. Give them the best. Whatever help you need, you just send back to your family and bring up the lot of them if you need them. Nevvies, nieces. We'll find a place for all of them. I want these boys to enjoy their new home."

Nose to nose with the mixed blood Arabian, Crowley rubbed the horse's forehead.

"Hey, leave off! That horse is a killer!" The groom was starting to come out of his dazed state, having suddenly found himself in London, instead of in the stables at Tattersall's from which he'd been unexpectedly hired as head groom to some toff, thanks to Angel's intercession.

Angel had discovered the rather sad soul taking care of an elderly horse that was coming up for auction soon. It wasn't clear whether the poor old thing would be sold for a break-down or for glue. The odds were tilted in the glue's favor. Half an hour later, Crowley had closed on a pure black stallion whom none of the stable hands had been able to get near, but who was purring like a kitten once Crowley had entered his box. Since the black was also becoming a candidate for the glue factory due to the inability of anyone to manage him, Crowley had gotten the horse at a bargain price. Angel had noticed a few bets being placed on the stranger's expected lifetime when he'd entered the confined space. They'd all lost.

In a second negotiation, Crowley had been generous in what he'd paid for an unrelated horse of unexceptional ancestry who turned out to be an almost identical match in color, coat and confirmation. And against all probability, when hitched to the phaeton which had miraculously appeared outside the auction ring, the two horses had shown a match in gait that equaled their match in appearance to such a degree that the auctioneer had gone to the unexpected length of trying to up the now obviously too low price Crowley had paid for the first. He didn't have a chance in hell against Crowley's knowledge of the law. All lawyers being likely candidates for eternal sunburns, Crowley had picked up more than a few pointers from his legal associates over the centuries.

And while Crowley had been engaged in another negotiation for some top quality grey leather and silver harness, Crowley had given Angel the go-ahead to make a quick purchase of a rundown farm just a few miles away. This was where the elderly salvation from the glue factory was now going to live out the rest of his natural life while rolling in clover and eating the best corn the region had to offer. The new groom's elderly father was put in charge of the Hospital and Rehabilitation Farm for Elderly and Abused Carriage Horses. He was still blubbering his thanks when Angel left.

There was a glow in Crowley's face as he watched the groom climb up into the phaeton and drive the pair around to the rear of the houses. For a pair that had just broken all records between Tattersall's and Berkeley Square, the two weren't even breathing hard and hadn't even broken a sweat. It was an absolute miracle.

Turning to Aziraphale, Crowley held out an arm and Angel tucked himself under it, wondering at how natural the camaraderie felt and unable to avoid thinking of the kiss that hadn't really left his mind for the last hour. Tied together as they were, it was amusing to note how well their paces harmonized. It wasn't just horses that could be amazingly well matched. When Crowley let go of him to wave him through the opening door, Angel could feel the chill on that part of his body, even through his warm wool coat.

A pull at his hat made him remember that he'd miracled it on for their wild ride, and he gave a sheepish smile to Crowley, who had noticed and laughed, good humor unabated.

"So, tell me, where would you like to go for supper, and what should we do after?"

A thought that should never enter the head of any righteous angel popped into Angel's and he busied himself pouring a glass of wine from the decanter. It was all the fault of that dangerous, insane - incredible - carriage ride. But if, after all, a little human closeness kept Crowley from contemplating what Aziraphale believed he'd been contemplating, then surely a small amount of sexual attraction could be used as an anchor - a focus - to draw Crowley away from his dangerous desire and, perhaps, replace it with a less disastrous one. At least to Crowley, if not to Aziraphale, some fragment of conscience that had not been blown away in the drive whispered in Angel's ear. He turned around and looked at Crowley, now sprawled in his usual chair and he could feel his heart beat just a little faster. Well, maybe, just for Crowley's sake, he could use a little of that attraction on that handsome devil.

"What about F Cooke's? It just opened and I'm hearing good things about it. Not French, but I've heard they have a way with their pies. Scotch beef. Jellied eels." To entice Crowley, he added, "The place also has a reputation for great ale."

"Sold," agreed Crowley, taking the full wineglass Angel held out and settling into a chair. "And after?"

"What do you say to an evening at a new club I've joined? There's a dancing group I attend. I'm feeling rather like kicking up my heels tonight." The high from the afternoon drive was still with Angel, he discovered. He tried a bit of wheedling. "They have a Turkish bath in the basement. Massages. Steam. And the most marvelous brandy in the lounge afterwards."

"Definitely that," Crowley agreed.

Just then, the serpent head on Crowley's cane hissed. Raising it to his mouth, Crowley said into it, "What, Hastur? Just about to go out."

"Wanted to know when I was going to see you tonight. Hear about your day."

Excitedly, Angel leaned over to the cane and spoke enthusiastically into it, Crowley moving it closer. "We're going dancing, then a Turkish Bath."

"The meeting is almost over. I'll join you at the baths."

Aziraphale put a hand to his mouth as he realized what he'd done. Crowley shook his head in disgust, but leaned into the cane "Absolutely, Hastur. Always welcome."

"Let me know where and when." The hissing stopped.

"Oops." After centuries of practice, Angel had his guilty look down perfectly. "Maybe it will cheer him up?"

"He's a demon, Angel. He doesn't get cheered up."

"Well, he could use a bath. And a shampoo. And I do believe that they'll clean your clothes while you're bathing. I know he could use that!"

"Just the way to bring a lovely day down. Hastur. Starkers."

They both emptied their glasses and smashed them in the fireplace. Angel's visit was turning out to be surprisingly hard on stemware.

**********************************

Standing in the back of the hall, Crowley and Aziraphale watched as sixteen male dancers, in two patterns, entwined their partners in a complex cotillion pattern. Under his breath, Crowley sang along, "long with silent glances courted, ere he won my witless heart," while Angel swayed with the music and occasionally allowed himself a small step in place.

"It's really not that difficult. I could show you the steps."

Ignoring the pleading tone, Crowley shook his head. "Never liked the complicated ones. What about a waltz?"

"Oh, a waltz! I haven't waltzed in forty years, I think. They don't do it here. No women."

"When this is over, I'll request one and you can dance with me."

"Ohhh." The anticipatory smile was worth the effort it was going to cost Crowley. Dancing was really not his forte.

"I actually was thinking, when you showed up on my doorstep, that you'd had a chance to think about my earlier request." Crowley kept his eyes on the dancers, so didn't see Angel's guilty expression.

"I told you before, Crowley. I won't be a part of helping you destroy yourself. No, I know what you said about insurance, but I don't believe a word of it. And Hastur doesn't seem anywhere near as bad as you're always saying. Certainly a lot better than I remember him from the old days. I can't believe that any problem you're having with him can't be worked out. And it CERTAINLY doesn't require you thinking of destroying yourself!"

"Oh, yes. Definitely one of the lads is Hastur."

Abruptly the music stopped playing the cotillion and a sweeping waltz melody began. The dancers, confused, stumbled around for a moment before the giggles started and short glances passed from one to another. All at once, everyone grabbed a partner and the room was filled with the sweep of the dancers.

Holding out a hand to Angel, Crowley gave a slight bow. "Shall we?" At Angel's pleased nod, they clasped hands and joined the dancers on the edge of the floor. "But I lead." A flurry of rearrangements of hands and, in classic position, the two merged with the dancers. It took only a couple of turns around the floor for Angel to adjust to the female position and his delight was spread across his face.

They didn't talk for the half hour the music continued, as Crowley, gaining confidence in something he hadn't done, himself, for decades, twirled Angel into a few of the more daring variations. The music. The laughter. The pleasure of touching another being. Especially this one. It was exhilarating, Crowley was finding. Knowing the dance would soon end, he took advantage of one of the turns to pull Angel close, letting their bodies press together for just an instant.

Expecting Angel to pull back once he realized their positions, he was immeasurably pleased to feel Angel actually press into him and then Angel glanced quickly around and did pull back into the more standard position. The dance ended and, laughing, Angel called out, "A gavotte. I feel like kicking up my heels." All around them was laughing agreement.

Breaking through the chatter, Crowley's voice called out, "Does everyone know the earlier variations of _la danse classique_?" Silence fell for an instant and then the chattering and giggles grew louder and an older gavotte began to play. Angel was blushing adorably as he took Crowley's hands and they went through the older steps. The dance was not nearly as long as the waltz and, as it approached the end, the giggles increased.

When it reached the part where the dancers would kiss, the giggles turned into outright laughter. One by one, Crowley touched his lips to each of the other dancers then turned as Angel approached him. For some reason, this was turning out to be a lot sexier than had the spontaneous kiss in the carriage.

Almost he thought that Angel might find a way to avoid it, but he didn't. Staring straight at Crowley with an expression Crowley couldn't even begin to interpret, Angel leaned forward, slightly opened his mouth, and pressed it firmly to Crowley's.

Who knew that fireworks could be set off indoors?

Whatever mischief Crowley had intended, had turned around and bit Crowley, well, not so much on his rear as in his front.

A flick of a tongue finished the demon and he almost grabbed Angel but managed to restrain himself. Instead, he allowed Angel to pull back and turn to chat with the other laughing dancers while Crowley attempted to figure out what had just happened.

They shared a look that Crowley was tempted to call ineffable, but didn't, and Angel didn't object when Crowley left the group and moved over to sit on a chair against the wall. A more modern gavotte melody started and Angel joined a new group and kept his attention on his fellow dancers and his steps.

Sitting there, Crowley wasn't sure if his mind was numb or racing but, whatever it was doing, his lips still tingled from the touch of Angel's. Could this possibly be what he'd been tempting couples into for millennia? If so, he couldn't understand why the earth wasn't groaning with its population explosion. He who had seduced for centuries on end, had just been seduced by an angel. His laugh was so loud that faces turned toward him, but he couldn't make himself stop. That tongue was going to discover that one doesn't play lightly with a demon.

In the dance pattern, Angel was seen excusing himself to his partners and walking away. He stopped in front of Crowley and looked sternly down. It was all Crowley could do not to reach out to see if Angel was having the same problem with his trousers that Crowley was. But apparently not. The well-fitted trousers in front of him showed no embarrassing bulge.

"We need to go. Hastur's due any minute."

That stopped Crowley's laughter.

**********************************

The layout of the club's bath was much like that of the Savoy baths or, for that matter, like the baths Crowley remembered enjoying so long ago in Rome. The major difference was the level of luxury, which said that if Aziraphale was paying for the membership himself, it had to be costing heaven a small fortune. Marble, statuary, fountains. The place had it all.

The tepidarium was immense and, probably due to the club's high fees, sparsely attended. Hastur, nonchalant about removing his clothing, had followed an attendant to the calidarium for a long, hot soak. Crowley had suggested to the man that hotter was better for his friend, but he doubted that Hastur would come back par-boiled. The best Crowley could hope for was that Hastur would be marinated into a good mood.

This was familiar ground for Angel and he introduced Crowley to the amenities with such enthusiasm that Crowley had already been thru the sweating, the hot baths and had dipped a toe into the cold one. Further, he had told Angel, he wouldn't go. Even for Angel.

The next stage was the massage and so here he lay, beside his friend, being rubbed and pummeled and reminded of muscles he'd forgotten he had. A discreet offer by the masseuse had been rejected by Crowley, and a cold stare had made sure that the same offer would not be extended to Angel, who was even now melting into a state of relaxation that would send him soon into slumbers. Or into public orgasm.

The sight had been so entrancing that a small number of coins had miraculously appeared from somewhere the attendant had not noticed and Crowley had been instructed so quietly in technique that Angel had never noticed when his masseuse, also the recipient of unexpected largess, had stepped back and allowed Crowley to take his place.

Fingers slick and fragrant with ointment had learned a body and had found that it could be as sensuous to rub along shoulders and arms, down spines and over buttocks, and around long, round thighs and calves, as the sounds coming from the almost comotose angel indicated it was for Angel.

At a nod to Aziraphale's masseuse, the man took over the kneading and Crowley leaned back against his own table, watching as the man turned Angel and worked on his front. Eyes opened just enough to meet his, before closing again in contented languor.

"Lie there any longer and you're going to have a kip."

"I've done that," Angel confessed. "Think I'll just have a short one. Go hot soak and wake me in half an hour."

The wrong side was up to swat, so Crowley leaned over and whispered into a sweaty ear, "Isn't that Gabriel across the room?"

Bolt upright and alert, Angel searched the room but it was immediately obvious that his boss was nowhere to be seen, or to see. "Now I know you're from hell. Remind me to pay you back for that."

"Come on, we need to wash up and get going if you expect us to get into Sweetings before the crowd."

"I've never not gotten a table there. If they're out of salmon, they'll have something else fresh. And their oysters..." That thought seemed to wake Angel up more than the fright over Gabriel. Thanking his attendant, he nonchalantly led Crowley toward the washing room where they'd finish up their bath. Control alone kept Crowley from embarrassing himself as that lovely derriere swayed in front of him.

A giggle from behind one of the doors of the many small rooms that lined the walls drew Crowley's attention, Aziraphale walking past with angelic incomprehension.

"Angel?" The question made Aziraphale pause and a nod in the direction of the door brought a blush to the cheeks against which his sideburns shown brighter white. So perhaps not complete innocence. Giving in to temptation, Crowley grabbed Angel's hand and, before he could object, pulled him into a room whose door stood open, closing it immediately behind them.

Without giving Angel a chance to object, Crowley pushed him to the wall and kissed him, letting all of his frustration out as his hands ran down a body he was beginning to know, but wanted to know much better. It took almost no effort to pull Angel over to the cot, if indeed it wasn't Angel pulling him, and they wrestled together for minutes, oiled bodies slipping against one another, until nature brought each of them into panting collapse.

"That was unbelievable," Crowley finally got out.

The words seemed to bring Angel out of whatever state he'd fallen into. Sitting up quickly, he tried to pull away, but Crowley's arms were still locked like a clamp around him. "Let me go, Crowley. We can't be here like this."

But that just made Crowley shift his grip so that Angel had less leverage to get up. After a moment, Angel relaxed and looked to reason to do what strength wouldn't. "Hastur's going to be looking for us, Crowley. We can't stay here." Slapping at a hand that was exploring his front, Angel whispered, "Stop that. Someone's going to come in."

"Sealed the door. Besides, bet this is what's going on behind all the other doors." The hand froze. "You don't do this when you come here by yourself, do you?"

"Of course not." Angel's voice was righteously indignant. "Now get that hand off of those or you're going to find yours on the floor. I'm serious, Crowley. I'm not in the mood anymore. I can't believe I was before. Please don't let us get caught."

The plea seemed to get through to a brain Crowley was finding fogged by feelings he hadn't had before, but most definitely wanted to have again. But the organ he was now holding had shrunk and confirmed Angel's wanting this episode to end. Reluctantly, Crowley let go and let Angel up.

"I don't want to talk about this, Crowley. Let's just get out of here."

Waving a hand, Crowley got to his feet and adjusted his glasses, which had, miraculously, almost stayed on his face throughout their bout. Without looking back, Angel slipped out the door.

"Thanks for the fun, Crowley," Crowley muttered as he got to his feet and slowly followed Angel out. "Really enjoyed it, Crowley." And bumped into Hastur, who was watching Angel being washed down by another attendant.

Hastur turned to look at Crowley in amazement. "You shagged him in less than twenty-four hours! I can't wait to get down below and spread the word. An angel! You shagged an angel!"

Crowley's stomach dropped to his feet. "Not so fast, Hastur. I got in a few grabs, and he was tempted, but he's not ours yet. You've just seen the opening moves, not the final act."

"I could have sworn..."

"Trust me. I was the one grabbing. Play this light and easy. Think of him as a skittish fish you're trying to catch. If he knows the hook is under the bait, he's not going to bite."

Flicking a hand under Crowley's now flaccid knob, Hastur smiled coldly. "Bites does he? Well, fine. I can wait. We need him begging if he's going to be any use to us. You keep working him. How long should it take?"

"Oh, a few days. Maybe a week if he starts feeling guilty. You throw the line out. Reel it back in. Repeat. Patience is what makes fishing an art instead of a business."

"Tempting souls IS our business, Crowley, and you'd best remember that. Okay, you've got your week. I'm expecting you to live up to your overrated reputation."

As Angel approached, now dressed and fumbling with his tie, Hastur turned away, walking over to Aziraphale's attendant to finish his own ablutions.

Cheeks a little redder than usual, Angel indicated Crowley's state of undress as he tried not to look at the obvious proof that Crowley was starkers. "You should get dressed."

"We really need to talk, Angel. I have no idea what you're doing at my place or what you're up to now. When Hastur's asleep, I'll be in to talk to you and I want a straight story."

As Crowley left to get dressed, Angel walked out of the baths and up the stairs to the familiar club rooms. But nothing felt familiar anymore. That explosion of feeling! How had he let himself... Let himself, nothing, he had wanted that more than he could remember wanting anything before.

Every touch of their bodies had created a fire that he knew could lead him down to a much hotter one, but suddenly he just didn't care. Well, he did. He just didn't want to. What he wanted was to go back down into the baths and rip off whatever Crowley had managed to put back on and find out exactly how to bring that feeling back and make it last forever.

Pacing up and down outside the entrance to the club, Aziraphale tried to reason with himself. These feelings were natural to the human body. They must be so strong for a reason, even in beings that weren't meant to reproduce. So they could be used, like every other human capability, for good or for evil. And, surely, what felt so incredibly good couldn't be so very evil. Especially if it were in service of a good. Clinging to that thought, Aziraphale tried to concentrate on his worries over Crowley state of mind. That calmed him.

The ultimate sin would be Crowley destroying himself. So drawing Crowley away from that was what was important. And in that small room, in those few intense minutes, Aziraphale had no doubt that he had focused Crowley completely on Aziraphale. His face flushed again as he remembered the burning of his whole body and the look on Crowley's face when he, too, had reached that final, glorious release.

And Crowley had just threatened to come to his room again tonight!

Threat or promise? Who cared! He'd have another chance to help Crowley away from his mental precipice. A sudden memory of the feeling of falling off his own took Aziraphale's breath away. He forced the thought away, ignoring it nibbling at the edge of what he forced to be his conscious thoughts.

He and Crowley were not going to have sex in a few hours. They were just going to experience closeness and bonding and all the feelings that would keep Crowley on this side of existence.

"And maybe sex!" jammed its way into his thoughts again before he managed to shove it out. He could feel he was panting. Just as he'd been in that room. What an experience! The positive to all of this was that he was going to be even better at his job than he'd been before. Because now he really understood just what that drive was about and what a glorious reward awaited its fulfillment between two loving individuals who plighted themselves for eternity.

He stopped in mid-stride. Wherever had that thought come from?

Crowley appeared at the door to the club. "Hastur's just checking out his new hairdo in the hall mirror. He'll be here in a sec. You ready?"

Not sure that he really knew the answer to that question at a more metaphysical level than he was currently ready to recognize, Aziraphale nodded. "More than ready."

**********************************

"Finally!" Standing up suddenly from Aziraphale's desk, Gabriel threw down a old book with a carelessness that almost stopped Aziraphale's heart. "I've been sitting here for hours waiting for you."

"Sorry. Things always take longer than you expect. Don't you find that?" The book had sustained only minor damage. A small dent to the leather cover and one page folded over. Turning his back, Aziraphale miracled the book into its previous condition and replaced it carefully on a distant shelf as he threw over his shoulder, "I'm afraid I didn't make very much progress today. Hastur showed up."

"Hastur!" There was a pause as Gabriel scanned his memory. "Of course, they're meeting today, too. That always seems to happen. I wonder if our schedule is leaking. Well, never mind that. What did Hastur have to say?"

"He's moved into Crowley's!" There was no need to exaggerate the discomfort in Aziraphale's voice.

"With you there? What did he have to say to that?"

"Crowley told me this morning that he told Hastur that he was trying to make me fall. Just the opposite of what's really happening."

"Not bad," Gabriel admitted. "Crowley always could think on his feet. His problem, before he fell, was that his mouth had already said its piece before his thinking ever started."

Walking around the crowded space, Gabriel paused and picked up a volume, which Aziraphale thanked him for and whisked out of his hands. "Maybe you'd better just come back and we'll write this all off as a good attempt, but a failure."

"Please. I still think I have a chance. Give me a few more days to work on him. I feel sure I can get Crowley to want to come over. Perhaps I could take him to visit the outdoor market. There are always overloaded carts there. And the most wonderful pears. I can't seem to get pears out of my head just now."

"Fine. I can't say that I wouldn't give your whole bookshop to be able to stay over with the three of you and watch Hastur botch something else up again. He must be absolutely spinning right now."

"You wouldn't like it there at all," Aziraphale said quickly, an edge of panic in his voice. "Damp. And the fireplace smokes. And, besides, I brought you something I thought might amuse you." From the floor where he'd placed the parcel when he came in, Aziraphale picked it up and laid it in front of Gabriel.

"That's very...thoughtful of you, Aziraphale," Gabriel said as he tentatively unwrapped it. "Magazines."

Hurriedly, Aziraphale opened the top one and showed the illustrations. "Gentlemen's magazines," he explained enthusiastically. "I noticed that your coat was a bit out of fashion and, knowing how much you enjoy fine tailoring, I thought you might like seeing the new sack style."

But Gabriel was already turning the pages as a chair appeared beneath him. "I had no idea there were entire magazines devoted to male adornment." He paused on an illustration of a man in a large block plaid suit, grimaced and moved on.

"Huntsman and Sons is getting quite a reputation. Saw an ad of theirs in the paper a week ago at my club." When he got no response, Aziraphale added, "Well, you won't be needing me for a while, I see. I'll just toddle off and see if there's any good deeds I can do on my way to Crowley's."

An abstracted wave of the hand was about to send Aziraphale off when it froze in midair. Staring sternly at Aziraphale, Gabriel asked, "Where is your cane? I tried to reach you earlier today and some young boy answered and started yelling for his mum." At Aziraphale's guilty look - yesterday, when the cane had begun singing a rather naughty ditty concerning Mengotto's passion for the unhappy Lucinda while Aziraphale had been surrounded by a group of children, he'd thrown the cane into the St James pond. Apparently one of the urchins knew how to swim. Gabriel broke into Aziraphale's reverie, shaking his head. "Fine. But don't lose this one."

A cane appeared in front of Aziraphale, who caught it in midair before it could drop. "Oh, thank you, Gabriel. I do promise to be more careful. I have no idea, really, where the other one went." White lies were such a fascinating subject for metaphysical conversation that Aziraphale reminded himself he needed a good half hour to consider the subject.

But Gabriel was back into a study of woolen trousers and just waved a hand again as Aziraphale gratefully took his escape.

**********************************

For what felt like the fourteenth time, Aziraphale sat up in bed, lit his lamp, and tried to make out the time on his watch in the dim light. With an effort, he stopped himself from trying to wind it again. Well, this time he'd managed to wait sixteen minutes since the last time he'd checked. He blew out the candle and laid back down.

It was always difficult to get to sleep in a strange bed. Not that he was in any way uncomfortable. Black silk sheets might be a bit cold, but the feather mattress below the sheets and the down comforter atop them made the bed warm and cosy. The room was barely seen in the dim light of the outside street lights and city reflection in the clouds overhead - he did miss seeing stars as one did in the 'old days'. And uncomfortably barren for his tastes. It was like being in an empty house that hadn't yet been properly decorated.

For a while, Aziraphale amused himself by mentally decorating the space. Straight simple curtains became billowing masses of material in this room of his imagination. Three bare walls became covered with bookshelves, with a large gap cut into the one in front of him to hold a piece of art work. Last year he'd been to an exhibit where there had been a new Millais. It took a while to search his mind for the title. "Mariana in the Moated Grange." That was it. Jewel-like colors that he remembered from the real medieval days that the painting attempted to imitate. Though the clothes in those days wouldn't have been so neatly made as the ones in the painting, and certainly not as clean.

But blue. He remembered blue. The curtains at the virtual window changed to something like the blue he remembered. A rug. Something thick and plushy so that your toes sunk in before you put your slippers on. Oriental, of course. He'd always found someplace to put one of those lovely carpets. Maybe a lighter blue.

The door opened.

"You're awake. Good." Slipping in, Crowley closed the door behind him and Angel could see the slight hand motion that said it was also now sealed. The black long nightshirt clung to Crowley's body and already the angel felt warmer.

"Must have been somebody shouting on the street. Just woke up."

"Squinch over." As he said it, Crowley pulled his nightshirt over his head and, lifting the comforter, bumped his way into Angel's bed.

"Put that back on this minute, Crowley!" Angel said, pulling the covers up to his chin and trying to merge into the outside wall against which the bed rested. Rather silly when one considered how they'd spent the evening together starkers.

"Just trying to make it less awkward later. When we finish our conversation. Now, give it up. What are you doing here?"

"Not that!" Aziraphale exclaimed, real horror in his voice.

"Talk about it later. You're safe for now. Or you will be if you tell me exactly what all this is about." Settling himself with one of the pillows that he pulled out from behind Angel, Crowley crossed his arms and stared. Crowley was exceptionally good at staring.

The silence growing more and more uncomfortable, and there being no way easily out of the bed, Angel finally gave up. "Keeping you from destroying yourself, if you really must know." He plumped up the other pillow and positioned himself defiantly beside Crowley, not looking at him.

"The holy water," Crowley guessed.

Wiggling around so that he faced Crowley, Angel tried to explain. "It's not just that you'd be doing something terribly sinful, it's also that you'd be hurting people who care about you."

"Who would really care if I was gone?" The question wasn't as pathetic as the words might have implied, since the answer to that question was lying beside him.

"I would, if you must know." Leaning forward and putting a hand on Crowley's bare arm, Angel tried to make Crowley understand. "No one else cares about me either, if it really comes to that. No one else brightens up when I come into a room, or finds out where the restaurants in a strange town are that I'd like, or just plain likes me. Of course, I'd care."

"And all this?" Crowley waved to the room and Angel's nightshirt.

"Well, I thought that you might be feeling depressed because you're alone too much. So it seemed like a good idea to..."

"Aziraphale! Are you asleep?" Gabriel's voice came from the cane in the corner, as the theme of the two jealous maids of Lucinda tinkled merrily in the background.

For a moment, the two in the bed froze, then Crowley got up, walked over to the corner and brought back the cane, holding it out to Aziraphale with a flourish, but not letting go. Ignoring the display of flesh behind the cane top, Aziraphale spoke into it. "Could you keep your voice down, Gabriel. It is the middle of the night."

"That shop you were mentioning, what was the name of it again?"

"H Huntsman and sons. Savile-Row number 11. They're known for their tweeds."

The silence that followed was the only indication that Gabriel had signed off. With a movement of Crowley's wrist, a large glass ball formed around the cane top, which he returned carefully to the corner. When he came back to the bed, Angel held up the covers for him to slip under.

"Talk about a mood spoiler. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, you were telling me why you'd miss me."

"Bugger that!" And Aziraphale leaned over and kissed him. After the first shock, Crowley kissed him back. But before it could go any further, the angel shoved him away and sat up straighter against his pillow. "Let me make this very clear to you, Crowley. No holy water. No suicide. No staying by yourself when you feel depressed. Understand?"

For a moment, it was as though Crowley were going to once again deny any intentions toward self-destruction, but then his mouth closed and he humbly nodded his head. "Understood. If I ever feel the urge coming on, I find you and you help me past it."

"Exactly," said Angel, in evident relief.

"What happened earlier today..." Crowley carefully refrained from describing their oiled wrestling match. "I think it helped. Instead of thinking about my own problems, I was thinking about you. About us. Any chance that we could..."

"You're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting, are you?"

"Not if you don't want to."

"Heaven forgive me, but I'm afraid I do. I know we shouldn't, Crowley. Now that we've talked this over, we should be able to find a way to spend more time together. So we don't really NEED to..." saying the word "sex" seemed to be beyond Angel at this moment, though the thought was becoming an obsession in both mind and body.

"Lay down and let me massage you and you can explain to me why we shouldn't, because I really don't understand."

That was so very kind of Crowley, Aziraphale thought, rolling over and snuggling his face into the pillow. Who would have thought that the master tempter would turn to reason instead of... Demonically oiled hands began to rub his shoulders. It took an effort to keep thinking, as he was so knackered that he could feel himself sinking into the sensations. But this was for Crowley's survival, so he mentally shook himself and tried to get his thoughts straight.

"Fraternizing with you would be bad enough, Crowley. The only reason that we're getting away with it now - right there, that muscle is so tight - what was I saying, oh, yes. We're getting away with this because my side and your side thinks that they're each putting it over on the other."

Shifting position, Crowley straddled Angel's legs, letting his erection lie heavy against Angel's bum. He returned to massaging the requested spot, while Angel tried to get his voice back under control.

"If we're caught..."

"We won't be."

"We could be."

"Ah, hell's not that bad. And at least we'd be together."

"Stop joking around, Crowley, I'm trying to be serious." Almost without conscious thought, Angel adjusted his position so that Crowley's organ was in the right position to head south for the summer. "This is not a good idea."

"This is a great idea. Has it ever occurred to you that people who are tempted are happier than people who aren't?" A slight pressure downward kept the tip of Crowley's organ firmly positioned where it could make both of them extremely happy.

"I make people happy every day." Experimenting slightly, Angel pushed back until the mass behind him was wedged just a little further in. Then he lifted himself off the bed and started rocking back and forth on the obstruction, just enough to make his breath catch.

"Not doing something you want to do doesn't make you happy. If you think about it, that's why you keep having to do all those divine exhilarations. To make up for all the frustration you cause all those people." Crowley's hands tightened on Angel's hips and he slowly began to push, his own breath becoming extremely unsteady. "Frustration might get someone to heaven, but they're going to be really bored once they get there."

"I'm not bored," gasped Angel.

"That's because you're about to get really, really happy," Crowley told him as he pushed the rest of the way in.

**********************************

Coming out of Angel's room an hour later, Crowley wiped the silly grin off his face as he saw Hastur's door open up at the end of the hall. A quick glance back at the sleeping angel, and he let the door close completely. Checking his respiration and body temperature and putting a slight frown on his face, Crowley turned to Hastur, who had come into the hall. He lifted two fingers and held them slightly apart, his voice low and almost angry. "This close. I was this close to having him. Then, just as I was about to lift that damned nightshirt of his and do the dirty, what does he do but start crying. Do you have ANY idea what a turnoff it is when the other person starts crying just as you're about to shag them?"

"I thought temptations were your thing." There was sheer disgust in his voice as he brushed past Crowley. "Let's go down and get a drink. Something woke me up a while ago and I've been waiting for your report ever since then. Damn! Damn! I was so sure you were up his arse. Damn!"

Running down the stairs, with Crowley close at his heels, Hastur headed toward the wine decanter. Crowley went instead to a rock cabinet under the table far from the fireplace. Reaching in, he pulled out a bottle, checked the label, closed the door and brought the bottle over to the table, where he dusted it and removed the seal and cork. Across the room, Hastur had settled down in the most comfortable chair and started up the hell fire.

Glancing over, Crowley quickly miracled the deep rich wine into its own decanter and then carefully poured the instantly decanted vintage into two large glasses, which he brought over and set beside his boss.

"Try this one. It's an 1841 Chateau Lafite Rothschild. One of the Grand Cru vineyards. Tell me if you can taste the difference."

Still angry, Hastur gulped down the wine in his glass and reached for one of the new ones. Crowley shook his head. "Clear the wine out of your mouth. You need a fresh palate for this."

Disgusted, but intrigued, Hastur did. And when he took a tentative sip of the new wine, the widening of his eyes told the story. Hastur sat up straighter in his chair and looked closely at the glass. "1841 is twenty-one years old. But this still tastes good. Not spoiled at all. Did you do something to it?" He sipped again.

Picking up his own glass and letting the fragrance fill his nose, Crowley shook his head. "Wines can range from raw alcohol that burns your mouth out to something you never forget. This 1841 was from a really good year and a really good vineyard. Even from a vineyard this good, what's coming out this year is only so-so. When you find something great, you put it away and let it - ripen isn't the right word, but you know what I mean. I've laid down several cases of this, and it's just going to get better and better."

"This is how you've been wasting your time?"

If Hastur hadn't been inhaling so deeply, a smile growing on his face, Crowley might have believed his boss to be in his normal annoyed state. But it seemed that alcohol was working its magic even on Hastur.

"How about if I give you one of my cases? Call it penance for being so slow with our friend up there." A nod indicated the bedroom on the floor above.

"What's causing all the trouble? I watch him. He wants you." Sipping again, Hastur shook his head in disbelief that anyone would. Crowley was not a favorite.

"Snogging he doesn't have problems with. So it's not my technique." Crowley took a larger sip of the wine and leaned forward to watch the fire.

"He's seen everything you're offering at the baths. So maybe that's putting him off. Would me." The wine was beginning to take effect, or so the occasional giggles would indicate. "Why not force the issue?" Hastur asked, helpfully.

"And that would bring him to us how? He needs to use that angelic free will of his to want to bend over for me. You know that. Otherwise he doesn't end up down with us." He stared into his glass after a quick glance over at Hastur. "Shame that. We get so close." He turned in his chair. "Maybe he's nervous about you being in the house with us. Is there anyone else you could stay with and give me a free run at him?"

"Ligur's up here for the duration of the Council. Could see where he's staying. But he's such a downer."

"Pity. But if you weren't here, maybe I could get Aziraphale to run around the house starkers. He's into gourmet. Maybe he'd be into nibbling my sausage. That would do it, wouldn't it? Doesn't have to be me playing hide and seek with the kielbasa, does it?"

Standing up, Hastur emptied the glass and put it down, then stretched. "All the way, Crowley. If we're going to get an angel down into hell, we can't have any possibility that they can find a way to excuse his behavior. Shagging. Top and bottom. In fact, what I think we need are witnesses." A smile split his face. "That's exactly what we need. Tell you what, just as soon as you know he's going to turn bottom up for you, you just let me know and I'll have half the council show up to find the two of you _in flagrante delicto_."

"Great!" muttered Crowley to his wineglass as Hastur left the room. "Can't wait to hear how Angel is going to get us out of this one." Then he went back to sipping his wine and remembering just what it was he had, in fact, just gotten out of.

**********************************

But when Crowley got up the next morning and looked for Aziraphale, it was clear that the angel had already left the house. His bag was still on the floor of the closet of the guestroom, so that allowed Crowley's heartbeat to return to something approaching normal. After fifteen minutes, when Angel still hadn't returned, Crowley headed out to find him.

It wasn't hard. As Crowley had suspected, Aziraphale was back in St James feeding the ducks. It was something the angel had done on and off over the years. Only this time, Crowley had no question what was on the angel's mind.

A quick glance of Angel's to the side said that Angel had seen him coming but he just continued to throw out onto the water whatever it was he had in his hat. Coming up and leaning forward to look, it seemed that today's feast included some seeds, some corn and a few broken up slices of bread. Reaching in, Crowley took a handful and threw them out himself. A free for all ensued below, with a small mallard seeming to win the largest piece.

Turning around so that he could look Aziraphale in the face, Crowley leaned back against the fence. After a while he asked, "Having second thoughts? About us?"

"There isn't any 'us', Crowley."

"Of course, there's an us. You. Me. It changed yesterday."

The next handful that Angel threw flew far over the heads of the ducks, who went racing after it. "Nothing changed. Well, except that maybe it's a bit more comfortable to stand up than to sit down." A slight smile at his own joke brought the tension between them down some.

"Sorry." A moment's thought brought a correction. "Not really sorry. The soreness will go away. At least, so I hear. Don't be sorry, Angel."

"I never meant things to go this far, Crowley. I just wanted to keep you from making a mistake. Now it seems that I have."

"Course you haven't. See, still here. Given up on the holy water plan. Promised you that. So it's all good."

"It's not!" The rest of the hat's content sprawled over the water as another battle of the ducks began. A green duck with gold markings, larger than the rest, swam over the mallard and reached the bread first, only to have a smaller white duck come up from underneath and grab it out of his mouth. "You know how I feel about crepes?"

Confused, Crowley nodded.

"Well, I'm really afraid that I'm going to feel like that about doing what we were doing together yesterday."

It took a bit of effort, but Crowley kept his face straight. "Am I the stack with butter and sugar, or the one with the cherry liqueur?"

That got a reluctant smile out of the angel. "Definitely cherry. Though I've been having an absolute lust for pears, so perhaps I should say you're more like crepes with a pear-brandy sauce."

"That good?"

An embarrassed smile acknowledged the comparison and Angel went back into his now refilled hat to throw out another handful.

"I arranged for Hastur to spend tonight somewhere else, so we've got the house to ourselves for the night. Thought we might try our own version of the Turkish baths. You haven't seen the bathroom in my suite, but it has the biggest tub you've ever seen. Easy room for two."

"That would be rather nice."

"Tonight we should try a few variations on last night's classic. I would like to have one, uninterrupted night with you trying everything I've ever tempted anyone into trying."

"And what's my part in this? What good deed will I be performing?"

"Curing my terminal frustration? What would you think of a quick trip to Brighton right now? Satan needs the exercise."

"Satan?"

"You didn't expect me to name him Cuddles, I hope."

"Well, no, but..."

"Hastur loves the name. And getting out of town means we get away from him early. How about it?"

"We'll do it! What would you think of staying overnight and looking for Roman artifacts? If I remember, correctly, we camped not far from there on one of those expeditions we took with Claudius' army."

"But Hastur's staying away tonight!"

"Tell him to stay away tomorrow night and we'll have two nights alone together."

"I call top!"

"You always call top!"

And arguing happily, they set off to pack.

**********************************

It was a beautiful day, the road to Brighton less crowded than one might suppose, given the weather. Crowley's phaeton had barreled along most of the way but, with the smell of sea air beginning to make itself known, the traffic in both directions was increasing.

"Watch that wagon! It's way over on our side of the road!"

There was only the slightest tensing of Crowley's hands on the reins as he made sure that the three feet gap separating the vehicles didn't get any smaller as the old man on the front seat of the cargo vehicle waved a hand to shoo away the early flies and passed on his way without a glance at the fine equipage on the other side of the road. Crowley had lost count of the number of times Hastur had panicked over near collisions that weren't even close.

Leaning forward, Crowley glanced across Hastur to catch Angel's eyes, but the lack of sleep was finally catching up with him, and Angel was snoring lightly.

Hastur followed his eye and gave a malicious smile. His voice was low so as not to wake the sleeping angel. "Don't worry. You can play slap and tickle all you want tonight. I just couldn't stand another day in the city. The smoke and noise and the smell of manure. Don't see how you stand it. And, besides, I never get to do any sightseeing."

"Should think it would remind you of home. Any idea why the Council broke up early?" Crowley kept his voice down, too.

"No. Tried to get some hint, of course, but it was all very hush hush."

"Are we there yet?" a sleepy voice asked from the other side of the bench.

"Soon. Traffic's increasing so we're getting close."

"I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry," Hastur growled, wiggling in his seat and bumping into both of the others. "Budge up!" While miracling a narrow phaeton into a three seater was possible, it certainly didn't make it comfortable and they were all getting a little cranky.

"Crowley! Over there! Do you recognize those three hills? The two small ones and the big one in the middle?"

Glancing over, Crowley was surprised to find that he did. It was a very distant memory, but they'd spent a month camped at the base of those hills. As he thought about it, he began to remember that he'd won quite a small fortune from a fairly well known gladiator who was along as a recruiter to the legions. The man had been lousy at the simplest knucklebone dice games, but usually could be counted on to intimidate the slighter soldiers into replenishing his purse, making him an endlessly useful walking bank account for Crowley.

"What do you say we stop and look around. See if we can find any old artifacts."

Since he'd only noticed that the traffic in front of him had stopped in time to not plow into a brougham, Crowley thought that might be a good idea. He'd been driving for a few hours and his back was aching. At Hastur's look of annoyance, he pulled the team over to the side of the road and told him, "You wanted to sight-see. What's better than Roman ruins?" A snarl was Hastur's only response.

The trail that led from the main road to the base of the hills was little more than a cow path, and the phaeton floated a few inches above it to save the suspension. If the horses could have talked, that is, if anyone had bothered to miracle them into being able to understandably converse, they would have told the humans that floating the carriage was easier on them, too, and they wouldn't mind if the carriage rode like that more often.

The closer they got to the hills, the more both Crowley and Aziraphale recognized familiar landmarks, so Hastur leaned back and let them enthuse across him while he tried to see what anyone would find interesting about a larger pile of dirt than usual. He couldn't.

The accommodation Satan and Crowley had reached meant that the horse was perfectly happy to stay where he was, munching on whatever happened to be within reach, while the three passengers climbed down.

It didn't take long for Hastur to confirm what he had long suspected. Dirt was terminally boring. Finding a spot under a tree that was thick with grass, he laid down and closed his eyes. Sleeping, besides being needful when in human form, was a wonderful way to bypass the boring parts of existence.

There was nothing boring about this place for the other two. In each mind old memories brought back the sounds of an army not in the field. An army busy with the minutiae of everyday life. The men might be long dead, but their voices still rang out in the shouts and laughter of memory. As long as Crowley and Aziraphale could remember, those voices would live.

"Couldn't we just leave him here?" Aziraphale asked, looking back at the sleeping figure.

"It's not so bad. Once we settle in a hotel, he can walk along the boardwalk and I'll let my fingers walk along your spine. As well as somewhere else." This suggestion met with the expected reaction, and Crowley performed a small finger dance on trousers until they jumped apart at the sound of laughter up ahead.

Slipping down a hand to rearrange his anatomy more discretely, Crowley shrugged his disappointment and moved slightly away from Angel as they continued their walk.

"We should figure out a way that we could be together." Crowley turned his head to stare. "Publicly together," Angel clarified.

"Where did that come from?"

"I've been thinking about it for awhile. If you actually asked Gabriel and Michael to put in a good word for you with..." Angel pointed upward. "Then maybe you could come back up and maybe they'd be so glad of the good publicity that they'd let us be together."

"You believe that?"

"Well, no. But there's nothing wrong with taking an optimistic view of things. I really believe it makes good results more likely."

"Can you just see Gabriel when you tell him that you want to move in permanently with me? I suppose you'd tell him that you were in love with me." Crowley carefully kept his eyes on a bird that had just started singing in a nearby tree.

"If it would help, I could tell him that."

They walked on for awhile in silence.

"You know, Crowley, you could tell them the same thing. That you're in love with me, I mean."

"I could," agreed Crowley.

"And that the reason you want to be with me isn't just because you like shagging me."

"Do like that." A smile crossed Crowley's face as he remembered what it was that he feared was about to become an unquenchable addiction. "But I guess I could tell them that I did. Just in case it made any sort of difference."

"That you loved me," insisted Angel.

"That I loved you," Crowley agreed. And reached out to entwine his fingers with Angel's. "They're not going to let us be together, you know, Angel."

"Probably not." The admission hurt.

"And if we told them that - well, what you suggested - then it's more likely that both of us would be in hellishly hot water."

"So what do we do?"

"For now, what say we keep doing what we're doing? And maybe something will just happen that we can take advantage of. I use that technique a lot in my line of work. Works."

"So I've noticed." Angel squeezed Crowley's hand. "Fine. For now we go on the way we've been going - yes, that way - and we see if we can convince our respective admins that there's some advantage to them in having us do some merging." Stopping, he turned to face Crowley. "But one thing I won't accept any compromise on. You are not now going to even THINK about suicide. And if the thought ever crosses your mind again, you will come straight to me..."

"And shag it out. Absolutely."

"Get stuffed, Crowley!"

"Hey, I called top." Still holding hands, they walked on.

Staring up at a tree that looked as if it had been there from before the roman army, Angel stopped, mind going back centuries. "Am I barmy or did we bury a time capsule here?"

Laughing, Crowley turned in a circle, finally ending up staring at a squared off monolith buried in the hill, but starting to lean out as if it might fall over. "I don't believe it. You're barmy and you're right. We did!"

Putting his back to the tree, Crowley started to pace off a line parallel to the rock. "...seventeen, eighteen, nineteen..." He turned to Angel.

"Forty-three."

"You wouldn't like to tell me how you can still remember that?" Crowley asked, not quite believing Angel.

"We were somewhat under the weather the night before, because we had a flutter on who could put away the most fermented cider. You were face down in the dirt, but I thought it was only right that I counted the empty jugs so I could prove to you that I'd beaten you. Problem was, I was so pissed, I kept losing count. Must have counted and recounted that lot five times over. Forty-three is emblazoned in memory. So that's the number of paces we used the next day when we buried that thing."

As Crowley continued pacing off the distance, he paused on one foot. "What was the stake?"

"What else? A jug of the best."

Shrugging, Crowley paced on. The usual. "Forty-three!"

With a dramatic swirl, Angel pulled a shovel out of midair and handed it to Crowley.

"Why me?" Crowley asked.

"My shovel."

"True," Crowley admitted, and set to work digging. The empty jug wasn't down more than a foot, so it didn't take long. Angel crouched by the pile of dirt forming that Crowley was taking care to toss close to, but not on, Angel's immaculate suit, but he allowed Crowley to pull the jug out and brush the dirt off.

The top had been plugged, so Crowley would have smashed the jug, but for Angel's exclamation of horror. Pulling out the small objects took a little longer, but the jug was saved for Angel's collection.

As they laid the objects on the ground, memories flooded back for both. A coin with Claudius' profile in perfect condition. A seal that Angel had used showing wings cut into a ruby-topped ring. Knucklebone dice - Crowley's, of course. And, lastly, a small cartoon drawn by one of the more artistic centurions that showed Angel and Crowley, collapsed in each other's arms, totally sloshed, and surrounded by a litter of empty mugs.

Angel took it and slipped it into a vest pocket. "Wouldn't do for either of our sides to see this. I'll put it somewhere safe."

"Don't think I'd like to explain finding this here either," Crowley said, handing the seal to Angel, who put it with the sketch.

"We could give the rest to Hastur," Crowley suggested. "Give him something to play with while while I'm playing with your dangly-bits."

"You wish playing. If you expect to get your end away tonight, expect to have to work for it."

"While you just lie at your ease? Not tonight, laddie boy. Tonight, we take turns!"

**********************************

"Did he really look like this?" Hastur kept turning the coin over in his hands.

Crowley, to Hastur's left, stared up at the ceiling, hands folded behind his head. "I thought you met him."

"Not me. Only one I knew was Caligula. One of the good ones." He turned to his right. "Your lot took him out, didn't they?"

Angel, his posture mimicking Crowley's, managed a trace of indignation. "Not us! Though we weren't especially gutted when we heard." From the open window overlooking the beach, the sound of the surf could be heard.

"Sorry about the mixup with the rooms. Lucky they had the one."

Two sighs were the only responses.

**********************************

Across the grass on the Mall, a handful of strollers were helping two gentlemen to their feet from the saddles on which they were sitting in the dirt. The unhorsed horsemen seemed a trifle confused, as well they should. Somewhere out in Long Acre, two put-upon ponies were having the first wild and free run that they'd had in years.

"So how many does that make? Eight or nine?" While Angel removed a handful of duck mix from his hat to throw to the waiting supplicants, Crowley amused himself by filling the hat with a rather ordinary burgundy, in preparation to changing it back just as Angel's fingers reached inside again.

"Actually, sixteen. There was the bay hack with the oversize rider. Two grossly overloaded cart horses. The stagecoach team with the drunk driver. That's four right there. What?" Pulling his fingers up quickly, Angel looked into the hat, then at his fingers, then back at the hat. Confused, he shook his head and took another handful of seed to throw. Crowley kept his eyes on the ducks.

"Where was I? Nine with that lot. Right. Anyway, I did count and there's another seven horses that are probably eating themselves out of their boxes as we speak."

"How many empty before we have to look into expanding the stables?"

"A good twenty or thirty. The farm used to be a racing stables with livery yard accommodation for visiting runners, so it's actually quite large. But you should probably restrain your impulses. You're going to run out of loose box space well before London runs out of mistreated animals. Read once there's quarter of a million carriages in London. Think a pair on average..."

"Fine. You've made your point."

"Crowley!" Distracted, Crowley had left the burgundy in the hat a little too long.

"Sorry."

Fingers and hat were instantly dry and clean, and the hat filled with an assortment of the better duck treats. Angel shook his head and pulled out another handful, tossing it as far as he could to see who would get there first.

"That one," Crowley said, indicating a small Tufted Duck that was trying to push its way through the mob.

Smiling at the similarity between Crowley's black suit and the black runt, Angel tossed the entire contents of the hat right in front of the duck. That started another free-for-all. Shaking out his hat, Angel replaced it on his head, and turned away from the ducks to stare at Crowley. Or, rather, at Crowley's hat.

"I've just had a wonderful idea how to spend the rest of the day until Hastur takes himself off and we can go back to your place."

"We go to your club and spend the afternoon running around starkers?"

Crowley looked so hopeful that Angel could hardly stop laughing. "No. I'm serious. I want to get you a new hat."

"I like my hat!"

"Well, I don't like your hat. Stovepipes are ungainly. I want to get you a hat like mine but in black. Will you let me?"

"This is really how you want to spend the afternoon?"

"Absolutely!"

"Then it's off to the mad hatters!"

And arm in arm they strolled away, leaving behind an entire flock of disconsolate ducks.

**********************************

"I thought we were going to Lock's," Crowley said as Aziraphale held the door for him at Huntsman's.

"If we can't find what I'm thinking about for you here, we will. But I got mine here," Angel patted the hat he had just removed, "and they always have a few to look at." They stood in the doorway and examined the dignified premises, ahush in the atmosphere that let you know you were going to have to pawn your oldest child to purchase anything within the shop.

"There." With a triumphant grin, Aziraphale led Crowley to a counter in the rear on which six top hats rested - four in fur plush and two in silk plush. Both silks were black, a stovepipe and a more normal height. The two cream ones were variants of Aziraphale's style and his hand instinctively went to one to enjoy the smoothness of its surface.

"May I help you?" The salesman arrived, apparently hoping to prevent grease or dirt from an unknown customer to besmear the works of hatters' art until he knew that they could afford to buy them.

"My friend," Aziraphale indicated Crowley, "is looking for a black hat. Not a stovepipe," he said firmly. "Something more like mine, though the band could possibly be a dark grey rather than black."

"Silk," Crowley corrected, glancing around the shop with some level of boredom. "Save a beaver, you know."

Shocked, then accepting that, Aziraphale rephrased his request. "A silk plush hat, along the lines of my own, but in black with possibly a dark grey band."

"Of course." Reaching under the counter, the salesman brought out a device that might have been appropriate during the Spanish inquisition, its metallic pieces gleaning in the bright lights that filled the corners that the sunny window missed.

With a glance at Angel, who had wandered away and was looking back at him with a trusting smile while examining a table full of trousers, Crowley allowed the device to be placed on his head.

"A very unusual head, to be sure. Quite long and almost perfectly even. Once we settle on a design, we can have it ready for you in under a month. Our manufacturing branch always meets our exceptionally high standards."

"I'm sure that one of the hats you have here will fit me perfectly."

"Very attractive. Might not be the best hat to wear during a lightning storm."

Crowley turned quickly. "Hastur! What are you doing here? I thought the Council was meeting again."

"Problem in Virginia. Explosives not getting the right exposure in that American affair. Need to make sure the conflict doesn't wind down too soon. You suggested I check out current fashions, but if that's where hats are going, no thanks."

Pulling the sizer off his head while Hastur wandered over to the costumes displayed on the walls, Crowley quickly picked up a black silk version of Angel's. "I'll take this one with me. You can keep mine."

"I'm sorry, sir. That hat will never..." The supercilious words stopped as the chosen hat conformed perfectly to Crowley's head. After a moment, the man took Crowley's old hat. "Will that be cash or do you have an account with us?"

Taking off the hat and looking at it again, Crowley said absently, "Cash," as Hastur wandered off.

"Very good, sir."

"Have you ever thought of adding just a dash of color, Crowley?" Wandering over with a soft, silk cravat of a subtle dark red and black plaid, Angel held it up over Crowley's thin necktie.

"Plaids? You're having a laugh."

"Not at all. Just feel how soft this is and think how sensuous it would feel when I removed it." The last was said in a low voice with a small flirt of a smile. "Besides, plaids are all the fashion just now."

"I can see that. But you might want to head Hastur off that if you don't want to be seen with him in it at supper."

"What's Hastur doing here?" A quick glance over his shoulder sent Aziraphale hurrying over to stop Hastur from making a severe sartorial mistake with a jacket and trousers of a matching large plaid being held up for inspection by a similarly garbed young salesman. Crowley shook his head and put down the neck piece, though not before running his hand over it with an amused smile. What a shame nightshirts weren't this transparent.

"Aziraphale!"

The tone of trumpets brought a sudden silence to the room, as everyone turned to the tall figure of Gabriel, standing in the dressing room doorway in a cream embroidered vest and matching trousers, with a salesman following close behind with measuring tape and one of the new sack jackets. The shocked expression on Gabriel's face was directed to Aziraphale who was helping Hastur into a more subtle suit coat with just a hint of plaid around the collar.

The silence lasted until Hastur, shrugging out of the jacket, which he left with the slack-jawed Aziraphale, crossed quickly over to the doorway. "It has been a long time, Gabriel. Still a clothes horse, I see." Peering closely at the lines of the vest, Hastur shook his head. "Makes you look a little pale. Ask them for something with a bit more depth of color."

While Gabriel was still sputtering, Hastur turned him away from Aziraphale and walked him over, arm in arm, to a rack of suits. Aziraphale took advantage of this to move behind a display of discrete undergarments, where Crowley had taken a defensive position. Being between Archangels and Dukes of Hell was never a good place to stand.

"What's he doing here?" Crowley hissed.

"I thought shopping would keep him out of our way. And what about Hastur? How did he hear about this place?"

"Oh." Guilt colored Crowley's voice. "I might have mentioned it to him this morning after you'd left the house. Been in my head since you talked to Gabriel last night."

Apparently they shared being the cause of this disaster, so they dropped the accusations and desperately searched for a way out. Their panic was needless. Still arm-in-arm, Hastur led Gabriel over to where the other two were cowering.

"Aziraphale, you should ask Gabriel sometime about what he did when Michael tried to assign harps to a bunch of the most musically inept angels you will ever see."

"Aziraphale has more sense than that," Gabriel said, giving Aziraphale a look that promised dire consequences should he ever get the urge to ask. "So, you decided that even demons deserved your good deeds, did you?"

A quick wink from Hastur told Aziraphale how the cover story was forming, so he effected the innocent look that had taken millennia to perfect. "I'm afraid I've been having very poor luck the last few days. I heard from a customer a rather sad story and I was trying to track down the people he was discussing to see what help I could be. But it took most of the time to discover that the story was referring to an event that took place centuries ago. When I stopped in here to check on their latest shipment of pants..." He quickly lifted a handful of men's unmentionables "I saw Hastur and thought that even a demon should be saved from the sort of fashion mistake he was about to make." Noticing what he was holding, Aziraphale quickly put down the silken smalls.

"Indeed." Gabriel's look was stern but, when Hastur and Crowley turned aside at the sound of a horn on the street, Gabriel gave Aziraphale a wink of approval at the cover story the lesser angel was attempting.

"If we're all finished shopping, perhaps everyone would care to take a quick stroll in a nearby park," Aziraphale suggested. To Gabriel he added, "It's the best place to see the latest fashions, and I could catch you up with a quick report." The wink he gave his boss when he turned slightly away settled the matter.

"Just the thing to do on a beautiful day." Removing his arm from Hastur's Gabriel guided Aziraphale toward the door, while Crowley ducked in the rear to pay for the hat that had received Angel's nod of approval. Hastur joined him to make arrangements on the suit he'd chosen.

Taking the coat from the salesman who came running up with the one Gabriel had left in the dressing room, Gabriel allowed the salesman to help him into it, while Aziraphale tried edging out the door. A hand stopped him. "You're never going to get anywhere with Crowley while Hastur is dogging your heels. Perhaps we should give this up as a wasted effort. Let me take care of getting rid of the two of them, then you and I will have a long talk about your recent activities. I've had to do two exhilarations because you weren't available."

Still giving instructions to a salesman, Hastur followed Crowley out onto the crowded sidewalk. Bowing his thanks for a generous tip, the man retreated as Hastur pulled on the gloves he had added at the last minute. A cane twirl indicated his pleasure at the uncomfortable afternoon he saw unfolding before the group.

"After you," Gabriel majestically indicated with a bow to the two demons to precede the angels across the street and, taking Aziraphale's arm in a warning shake, leaned over to murmur, "Just miracle over whatever you've left at Crowley's. It's time you got down to some serious work again."

"What would you think of our attending the theatre tonight together? I've heard there's a play being put on in a rather obscure theater a few streets behind Drury Lane," Hastur called out over his shoulder as he dodged the cabs, carts and carriages barreling down Savile-Row.

But Gabriel's response was interrupted by a disruption as traffic around them came to a clashing halt. An overloaded cart filled with crates of fruits and vegetables was piled so high that the driver wouldn't have been able to see behind him so, when he attempted to pass a cab stopping to let off a well-dressed couple, he didn't see the small, smart curricle attempting to pass the cart just as it pulled out. The result was a collision and the curricle's matched pair had been brought to their knees, the harnesses tangled with the wheels of the cart.

Jumping down and expressing himself with a vocabulary that Hastur could only admire, the cart driver pulled out his whip and attempted to get his single old mare to pull the cart away from the confusion. But the weight of the wagon and the other two downed horses was too much for her, and she went to her knees, which only doubled the blows rained on her by the driver.

From out of the cloudless sky came the sound of a thunder bolt that brought all eyes up from the scene to scan the sky for the source of the noise. All but Gabriel's. So it was only the Archangel who saw Crowley's slight wrist movements and realized what had happened when everyone looked back to see the cart horse gone and the driver on his knees beneath the heavy harness.

While a group of young men gathered around the downed bays and helped them up, checking knees and tendons for any damage, Gabriel stared at Crowley, who was joining in the crowd's laughter at the confused driver's expense, nothing indicating that he had been anything but an amused observer of the event.

As their group finished crossing the street, Gabriel leaned over to Aziraphale. "Bugger what I said before. We might really have a chance with this one!" Calling to the demons who were waiting on the other side of the street, "Haven't been to a play in centuries. Which one did you have in mind?"

"Paradise Lost!" And with a wave and a twirl of his cane, Hastur followed Crowley as they turned toward St James Park.

It was all Aziraphale could do to keep a straight face as Gabriel missed a step, then hurried on after the other two.

**********************************

"You missed a spot." The spot pointed to was in the middle of Angel's chest, so Crowley left off the ear he was nibbling and licked his way down to the place Angel's finger indicated, with just a few stops along the way to taste nipples that were hard and fully responsive to a teasing tongue.

"Got that spot before, but happy to take another turn at it." Raising up his head, Crowley looked at the beatific vision before him, eyes closed in ecstasy. "What's the point of my doing this if you forget right away?"

"I am never going to forget this night. Yes, just like that."

Hands curled in Crowley's hair and tightened as Crowley went back to work on a nipple that seemed to be drying faster than it should. "Hey, there. You won't like me bald!" Crowley said. The hands loosened, but rumpled through Crowley's hair in a way that was completely delightful.

With a last kiss on lips that opened to his touch, Crowley sat up and looked down at himself in satisfaction. Angel opened his eyes and smiled.

"I could go again in a little while if you wanted. And if you're not too sore," Crowley quickly added.

"Just a little. In case some of these miracles show up deep in the record books, I think I'll stay with the cream you're using and skip the self-healing."

"Good plan." Collapsing beside Angel, Crowley wound their fingers together. "A whole night."

They were quiet together for a while. "Wish there was some way we could always be like this."

"Oh, we'll find ways to get together. You're just as sly as I am." Rolling over, Crowley ran the palm of his hand over the soft white sideburns. "It will be all the better for the abstinence in between. The next time we're together, you'll be so ready I won't have a chance to get my trousers off."

"I'll like that." But Angel's voice was slowing and Crowley could feel his breathing getting more regular. With a gentle kiss again on the slightly parted lips, Crowley curled up next to Angel, an arm around his middle, and let himself begin to fall into dreams that could never be as good as reality. But for just an instant, he let himself wonder how Hastur and Gabriel were getting on, the thought causing a chuckle as he fell asleep.

**********************************

"Gabriel?"

"Yes."

"You asleep?"

"Obviously not."

"How can Aziraphale sleep in this bedroom? It's cramped and cold and you're stealing all the blankets." With a pull, Hastur pulled back the comforter that had, indeed, wound itself around Gabriel.

His front exposed, Gabriel rolled over and tugged some of it back. Giving in, he scrunched over closer so that the blanket covered them both.

"You would have liked the other play better." There was a slight laugh underneath Hastur's voice that Gabriel found incredibly annoying.

"Othello was a better choice. Something we could both enjoy. He was yours and Desdemona was mine. Something for both of us. Do you remember when Kean's wife played Desdemona rather than his niece?"

"Not much for the theatre. Never saw them back then."

"Shame.

There was silence for awhile until Hastur started quietly laughing.

"Now what?"

"I was just remembering the time you and I bet who Michael would ream out next. You said the little Choir who always had that one feather sticking out of her wing."

"And you thought it would be Ligur. Every time Michael turned around, he seemed to trip over Ligur."

"And we were both wrong."

"It was us! Because we were standing around after he'd already announced twice that we should get into our choral positions."

The quiet laughter soon stopped. After a minute, Gabriel shook his head as he stared at the ceiling. "You should never have whacked Michael, Hastur. She never forgets."

"Didn't have a choice after she whacked Ligur. He's my mate."

"Remember that time we dropped Ligur through a cloud and bet what his first word would be."

Together they yelled softly "EEEEHHHHH!!!!!"

Again the silence continued as they remembered a long ago time when all the angels were of one heart and one mind. Gabriel finally broke the quiet. "Really sorry it worked out the way it did."

A small laugh was the only answer.

"Tell me about Crowley. He's been a major pain in our arse."

"He'd better be. Though if you remember him from the old days, you'll guess that he's still a major pain in ours, as well. Why?"

"I'm just surprised that you didn't mind the two of them spending the night playing that high-stakes poker game at Crowley's. You don't seem worried that Aziraphale is going to tilt the game in favor of that young man who's worried about his sister."

"Because I know that Crowley is going to tilt the game to take him for everything he's worth. You seem confident in your side. Fancy a flutter? "

Gabriel thought about it for awhile. "You know that wine you introduced me to tonight?"

"The 1841 Lafite? Knew you'd give in. Couldn't really object to pouring wine into that temple of yours. The right stuff."

"If Crowley corrupts him, I find you two more bottles. Aziraphale saves him, two bottles to me."

"Done."

Each lay there wondering just how they were going to weedle the wine out of the other since both knew that no such poker game was going on over there.

"Gabriel!"

"I knew I should have left my cane in the shop," Gabriel muttered to himself as he got up, put his feet into the white silk slippers and walked over to the cane in the corner, reminding himself once again that he really needed to convince Michael that a musical interruption made the subsequent conversation so much more enjoyable.

"Don't forget to give her my love," whispered Hastur, hands behind his head and a smile on his face.

"Michael. Something important? It IS the human sleep time."

"What was that about love?" Suspicion colored Michael's voice.

"Just Aziraphale telling me there was a message from above." As he talked, he walked into the shop so that Hastur wouldn't be tempted to comment again.

"He's there. Good. I need both of you back here as soon as you can. The other side is making a major push in a place called Shiloh and I'm hoping that we can do something to keep this conflict from breaking into a conflagration that could involve that whole country."

"It's just a local squabble, Michael. Probably be over in a few months. Humans are always indulging their taste for violence. I don't know why we should be interfering."

"If you'd been reading the reports I've been sending you for the past month, maybe you would know. Just get up here fast. We're going to...Tennessee. Strange name. Just hurry up."

Laying the cane down on a table, Gabriel returned to the bedroom and closed the door. Then he looked at Hastur in the bed. The demon was laughing. "Michael would really send you down to us if he knew we were in bed together, Gabriel."

"But we haven't..."

"Of course we haven't. But it still wouldn't do you any good with Michael."

"A stern talking to is not what I think you'd be getting from your side either. May I suggest that this episode is best kept to ourselves?"

"Absolutely," Hastur agreed fervently.

"Get out of that bed," Gabriel said, getting his clothes from the closet. "I need you to send Aziraphale back here right away."

"Since I'm clearly not about to get any more sleep tonight, I might as well," Hastur agreed. Then, without bothering to get dressed, he miracled himself and his clothes back to Crowley's.

And landed in the guest room where Crowley was pumping furiously into a raised bum, while Aziraphale thrashed around, face into the pillow, making grunting noises.

For a moment, Hastur just gaped, then a smile grew on his face. Miracling his clothes on, Hastur leaned back against the door, enjoying every move Crowley made. He was just opening his mouth to congratulate Crowley when he remembered something. His mouth snapped shut and he slammed his palm against the door behind him. "Now you get him! Just when it doesn't do us any good."

Two heads turned simultaneously to stare at Hastur in horror. Then Crowley collapsed on top. "Five minutes! You couldn't have waited five minutes!" Eyes closed in frustration, he beat a fist on the bed next to where Aziraphale's head would have been if he hadn't buried it under a pillow. But it was quickly obvious to Crowley that he might as well give up since he was no longer physically able to continue.

"Gabriel needs Aziraphale back at his place. There's a general call-up and it's all hands. We can't send him back with finger dents in those lovely ivory hips, now can we?"

"Five minutes," Crowley moaned again.

"Twenty-four hours would have done it. Damn! After all our scheming and planning..." Aziraphale's head poked out from under the pillow. "Sorry, Aziraphale. Nothing personal. Just business. But damn! You couldn't have laid down for him twenty-four hours ago could you? Even twelve!"

"Twelve hours ago," Aziraphale reminded Hastur coldly, "I was in bed with the both of you. If you hadn't bollixed up the reservations, you probably would have gotten your wish."

That got another "Damn!" from Hastur and a "Five more minutes!" from Crowley.

"Off, Crowley. I can't breathe."

That moved Crowley in a hurry. Shaking his head, he started to laugh. "Guess we don't have to worry about getting caught anymore." He looked over at Hastur. "Not that I'm trying to change your mind, but just why is it too late?"

Turning to leave, Hastur paused in the doorway. "When Michael called Gabriel, I opened my big mouth and Gabriel told him I was you. So if we tried to put it out that he's already put out, then Michael would be convinced it was a lie, since he knew exactly where Aziraphale was when the dirty deed supposedly went down." He shook his head in disgust. "We were so close."

Crowley looked at the now closing door in disgust. "He was so close? I was so close!"

Hastur poked his head back in. "There's an all angels call for the business going on in the states. You need to report back to active service. And if you don't get back there quick, you're going to find Gabriel here instead of me. And Crowley, there will be a commendation in this for you. I just won't be able to say what it's for." The head disappeared.

In an instant, the two were out of bed and scrambling into their clothes. Sitting on the bed and pulling on his shoes, Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, who was straightening his tie in the closet mirror. "Next time, Crowley." He stood up and bumped Crowley away from the mirror so he could check his own appearance. "While I'm gone, no holy water! Promise?"

"Promise."

"Good." And with a quick kiss, Aziraphale was gone.

**********************************

Seated at the shop desk, Gabriel was busily talking into his cane, but finished up, put it down and came over to Aziraphale. "How did it go?"

"He was this close," Aziraphale said, using his fingers to indicate Crowley's nearness to sainthood while shaking his head in remembered frustration.

"Well, you tried. And if you don't get him this time, maybe you will the next."

"I'm counting on it."

At the determination in Aziraphale's voice, Gabriel thumped him on the back. "That's the way. Climb every mountain. Ford every stream." He stopped and stared at the wall, then smiled. "I wonder if I could convince a playwright to put that in a play. Should make myself a note. Well, don't just stand there, Aziraphale, we have work to do. Wars wait for no one." He stared for a minute. "Your vest is inside out. New fashion like the plaid? Don't like it. Stay classic, I always say."

As they disappeared from the shop, the lights went out and the sign on the door flipped to "Closed until we're open."

Just another night in London.

**********************************

**Author's Note:**

> Tempting 101  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/22324276
> 
> In Vino Veritas. Or Not.  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/22233535
> 
> Pillow Talk  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828172


End file.
